Chapter Three
“PLACES!” DANIEL clapped from where he stood in the front of the room, holding eye contact with each of his students in the mirror. He attempted to keep his face straight, but these grown adults in leotards, taking their once-a-week modern dance class seriously, were too cute for their own good, and he loved each of them. Percy, with his racquetball goggle glasses, knee brace, and fifty-two-year-old crisis ponytail. Brenda, with her high blood pressure, side boob sweat, and use of the phrase “Lord Jesus” when Daniel made them do primitive squats. He even loved Nadja, a German dog groomer who took smoke breaks during the hour-long dance class.
The music started.
“Five, six, seven, eight!”
Daniel breezed through the choreography, shooting a reassuring smile at the students who struggled, because who cared if they landed the double turn? With respect to the principles of any dance—first position, fifth—technique could never hold a candle to spirit. Technique could never translate language of the soul . It was what he strived to unearth in his students: transient freedom from their lives. Without judgment. Without concern for how they looked. Equipped with only their movement. Only their soul.
The song dwindled to a finish, and his students, puffing and panting, bowed their heads.
“Beautiful,” he said, emotional with gratitude, probably nearing the misty-eyed look he so frequently had. “I love you all more today than I did yesterday. I’ll see you next week.”
Each of his students praised and hugged him—the icing on the whole heartwarming, misty-eyed cake—and meandered out the door, happily exhausted.
Olivia took a different approach with her students. More utilitarian. She didn’t necessarily arrive on time to her class, which started ten minutes after his, and she didn’t piddle around with pleasantries so much as she firmly patted backs, and occasionally butts depending on if she was sleeping with the student .
“So?” She flopped her duffel bag onto the back counter and hopped on top of it, batting her eyelashes down at him as he tried to answer an email from a student on the studio’s computer. “You haven’t thanked me for leaving you at that party.”
His lips twitched. “Thank you, Olivia, for leaving me and creating a stressful environment that I happened to make the best of.”
She rolled her hands. “And?”
“And?”
“You need to thank Puddles.”
He scrunched his face. “Hmm, do I?”
“Yes. If he wasn’t under the weather, there’s a chance you never would’ve met Bathroom Make-Out Attorney Man.”
His breath caught a little as his smile split his face. Each time he relived their kiss—every twelve to thirteen seconds—the air around his head suddenly seemed balmier. Like dark chocolate, blue ice, and amber honey. “Okay. Dear Puddles, thank you for refusing to leave this earthly plane. You obviously know something we don’t. I hope whatever awaits you on the other side involves whole rotisserie chickens. How’s that?”
Olivia held a hand to her heart. “Actually, quite moving. I think this man has changed you for the better. Have we heard from him today?”
“We have.” Daniel squealed as he scrambled for his phone under the counter and swiped open his texts. “Get this, you’ll never believe it. He said, Good morning, Daniel .”
“God,” Olivia moaned, fanning herself. “That’s so hot. I’m so glad you finally ended it with What’s-His-Nuts.”
“Nate.”
“Doesn’t matter. So when are you seeing him next?”
“I don’t know yet,” Daniel said, chewing a nail. “But I’ll tell you this—”
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m nervous.”
“Shocking.”
“He’s just so foxy. He’s the foxiest person I’ve ever touched in real life and also in the life I fantasize about having. The one where I’m surrounded by, like, twenty men—all named Alejandro—and they’re saying things like You know, I think it’s kind of cute that you steal your neighbor’s internet because you can’t afford your own . And Emotional maturity is less important than being able to make really good Netflix recommendations —where was I going with this? ”
“I think what you’re trying to say is his foxiness out-foxes your own, but that’s where you’re wrong. You’re the foxiest person a lot of people have ever seen in real life and in their Alejandro fantasy lives. I’m sure there’s a ton of folks who probably picture you when their partners are going down on them.”
“Aw, Olivia.” He pinched his lips together. “That’s the sweetest shit you’ve ever said to me.”
“And so true. Case in point, how can you have, like, negative 12 percent body fat and still have an ass like that?”
He shrugged. “Genes?”
“Jeans?”
“Yeah, genes.”
She studied his lower half. “But you’re not wearing any.”
He squinted. “What?”
“Daniel, can I see you for a second?” asked the studio owner, Madeline, emerging from her OR.
That’s what they all called her office. The Operating Room: a germaphobe’s wet dream, an environment as sterile as the aftermath of a vasectomy. And it wasn’t like she cleaned it. It was that she never soiled it in the first place. Causing messes wasn’t Madeline’s bailiwick. One couldn’t smudge surfaces or collect dust if all they did was float on air. The woman floated on air. She might have been angled bones, hollowed cheeks, and thin lips coated in matte burgundy lipstick, but the way she moved gripped the attention of every person in the room. She was as timeless as the pearl pin that held her bun in place, and Daniel secretly wished to be her when he grew up.
She draped herself in a willowy black scarf and gazed out her office window at the dance floor where Olivia’s class commenced. All she needed was a jade cigarette holder and the hazy exposure of a spotlight to illuminate her green eyes and complete her silent film look.
“Your classes are doing so well,” she said, her eyes following the pirouetting students. “In fact, they do the best. But you know that.”
He burrowed into the validation of her words, all warm and fuzzy. “If they do the best, it’s because I learned from the best.”
He’d met Madeline when he was eighteen, just starting college, and in desperate need of a part-time job. He’d been dancing his entire life, but until her, he’d never had an opportunity to teach. It felt like she’d taken a chance on him by assigning him one of their most popular time slots, directing him how to control a room, but she’d always insisted she could “see something” in him. It must’ve been why she supported him in unimaginable ways—surprising him with new dance shoes when his got holes, stocking his refrigerator with pastas and soups she cooked from scratch. She’d ask if he liked lemongrass and then say, “Oh, it’s nothing,” as she stuffed homemade egg rolls and cans of sparkling water inside his backpack. “I made extra by accident.”
She turned to him. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five.” She nodded. “Peculiar age, isn’t it? Try your best you may, but you just don’t know what you don’t know.” She always spoke like that. Part riddling cat and part sexy shaman. “Come to think of it, I was not much older than you when I started this place.”
“Yeah, you were twenty-six.” Daniel twisted to locate his favorite picture of her where it hung on the wall—she and her husband mid kiss in front of a much newer St. Louis School of Dance sign before years of harsh weather faded its zest.
“Do you like working here?” she asked.
“Is that a real question?” He raised his eyebrows. “I love it. Of course I love it.”
“But you’ve got to be thinking of your future, no? And what you wish to do with it?”
If by thinking of his future she meant worried until he ground his teeth about how he was going to afford his humble lifestyle once he had to start paying back his student loans , then yes. He’d thought about it. What he’d learned in his bachelor of arts in dance had been invaluable, but what he’d spent to learn it didn’t come without loss.
The whole endeavor had cost him in more ways than one, putting him in debt and driving a deeper wedge between him and his dad. His dad, who insisted he “get a real hobby” when he’d started dancing competitively, then “get a real degree” when he’d pursued dance in college. At least Robert Greene was consistent as the current mantra was: “For the love of God, get a real job.”
He plunked into a chair and exhaled. “I’m glad you asked, because, yes, I have been thinking a lot about my student loans, and what if I sell a kidney? People live perfectly healthy lives with one kidney— ”
“Let me stop you right there. I have something better than organ trafficking. I have a proposition.” From her desk drawer, she produced an envelope. “I want you to take this, and I want you to go out to your car when you’re ready to leave and read it there.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a number. I’ve recently received an offer to buy the studio, the space, everything. And if I’m going to sell my company, I would rather it be to you.”
His jaw fell to the floor with a clang that shook the building. Or maybe that was Olivia’s class doing a well-timed V-jump. “Wait. Why did it just sound like you said you’re selling the studio?”
“Because I am selling the studio.”
“No! No, no, no. What? You can’t do that—”
“I’m done, Daniel. My husband got offered his dream job in Oregon. After all these years, I’d like to support him the way he’s supported me.”
“Okay, but what about this place? All your hard work. You can’t just leave it behind. Where are you going to dance? You can’t not dance.”
“Sweetness. Even if I wasn’t ready to pass the torch, my body is. These old feet can’t do what they once could. Who I’d like to see carry that torch is you.”
He blinked, eyes wide. “Madeline. This is…. I’m flattered, but I’m not ready to own a business. I don’t know anything about running a business.”
“Don’t you see?” She leaned in a little closer. “You run it already. I’ve never had someone care so deeply about the students, about their personal lives and if they’re progressing. I’ve never had someone pay such attention to the scheduling or the variation of classes. You even care about the bathrooms.”
“The bathrooms?”
“Yes, you roll the washcloths and arrange them all pretty in that basket so the students can feel like they’re in a spa.”
He chuckled and dropped his head. “I thought it was a nice touch.”
“It was. You are the person we call when the computer stops working, or a student has questions about their membership. You are the heart of this place, and I’d rather see it under your care than watch the building get turned into another financial office.”
“This is bananas. ”
“No, it’s not. The studio is solvent and growing. You will make back what you spent in no time. The only caveat, of course….” She sighed while her tone sobered. “I would need to know by the end of July.”
“The end of this July? That’s in two hours.”
“It’s in two months.” She grinned, accustomed to his dramatics. “I will help you secure a loan. You can do this.”
He smoothed his thumb across the envelope. “So, this is the price you’re asking?”
“That is your price. I wouldn’t offer it to anyone else. It’s fair. I promise.”
He shook his head as his eyes started to sting. Not that it took much to make him cry. It was sometimes torturous navigating the world with oversized tear ducts. He was about to walk out of here looking like he’d just strolled the greeting card aisle again. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me. What’ll I do? I’ll wither to my death without you here.”
The gentlest of smiles softened her lips as she palmed his cheek. “I hope that someday soon you’ll wake up, look in the mirror, and finally see what everyone else sees.”
Speaking of the greeting card aisle….
“You won’t wither on your own, Daniel. You’ll bloom.”
DANIEL SAT in his car and ripped the envelope open. Inside was a folded piece of paper with a number written in blue ink. Under the number:
I hope it didn’t make you faint.
If you’re still conscious, that’s the first step in a much bigger dance.
Love always,
Madeline